


Love Me in the Dark: A Sunnyside-Up Novella

by firetoflame



Series: Sunnyside-Up in New York [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetoflame/pseuds/firetoflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meeting Natasha, befriending her, loving her hasn't been without hardship. It hasn't been without fight, for either of them, but it's been worth it.</p><p>Still, Clint knows you don't walk through the kind of stuff they've both seen without some demons. Ivan, the attack, twelve weeks between the hospital and foster care before Phil took her in: Natasha has seen her share of them.</p><p>And though she was safe now, there were still landmines. </p><p>Part 1.5 of the Sunnyside-Up in New York Series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run the Same Veins

 

**The one where they fight about tips. Phil picks out linens. And Clint sees through all the bullshit.**

If there's one thing Natasha Romanoff is, it's a fighter.

She's spent most of her life battling demons.

First it was the fire that stole away her father, leaving her mother with no income and a toddler to raise. Those licks of red flame had haunted her nightmares for years. Then, when she was old enough to realize new horrors, the demons morphed into needles and alcohol bottles and little white bags of powder that left her mother red-eyed and delirious. She became a hollow shell that Natasha pleaded with, that she washed and fed and cried over when her mother didn't know enough to care for herself. But no matter how much she tried, the shell withered. Dry and brittle beneath her fingers until every touch was dust.

After the world stole her mother away, these things—these terrors—became a man: a man with stale breath and rough skin. With wandering hands and lingering touches that still make her shiver to remember. Before, when she was living with Ivan, she would dream herself away to a place where she was free to love Clint without fear of her Uncle or the circle of darkness he had concocted around himself.

Now that he's gone, she no longer dreams of Clint, because she has him. No, now she dreams of losing him. Losing him to a man she's afraid she'll never really be rid of. A man she sees every time she closes her eyes.

With that, Natasha jolts awake to darkness: an inky isolation that leaves her panicked and wary, until she recognizes the familiar lump next to her, a muffled movement of breath and dreams. The sleep fog fades a little more, the tightness in her chest begins to loosen, and the memories become only that again.

She takes a long draw in, biting her lips against the shudder in her chest.

It's been almost thirteen weeks since the attack. Twelve since she woke up from surgery, became a ward of the state and was shipped off to a group home far away from Clint. But those numbers she tries to forget. Instead she counts the wisps of hair that cover Clint's forehead as he sleeps on next to her, oblivious to the horrors that have dragged her from her sleep once again.

She runs her fingers over his skin, the warmth chasing a chill from her she's only now recognizing. The movements are gentle, so as not to wake him, and she murmurs truths against his chest. _Four_. She's been with Clint, at the diner, for _four_ days now. No more group homes. No more ward of the state. Phil's promised her this much.

She's free of all that.

But when she closes her eyes again she can still see Ivan and the tears drip silently down her cheeks, soaking into the front of Clint's shirt. Eventually the stream must stop and sleep must take her because when she wakes again it's much later. The sun is up, warping the shadows in the living room. Her eyes ache from being clenched against the sting of tears, a sharp dryness pricking against their surface.

A swallow and a sniff and she knows she'll be clogged and stuffy this morning.

She needs a glass of water and a moment to wash her face. Maybe she can slip away while the house is still quiet. Maybe before—

"Tasha," Clint whispers in the space between them, groggy with sleep, but very much awake. He's been watching her with that same anxious ridden concern that's twisted his features for the last few days. He knows something's wrong. And it would be an insult for her to shrug him off, to tell him he doesn't understand, because he does, more than anyone, and not just because he was there, but because he's been through some of this himself. Their horrors may not be exactly the same, but they run the same veins and their blood beats with the same unsteady _thump, thump_ of fear.

"I'm sorry," she replies, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. It's stained now, thanks to her, destined for the hamper, but it doesn't stop her ministrations. The touch is soothing. So are the lips he presses to her forehead and the fingers he massages through her hair.

He shifts a little and, to accommodate, she ends up half sprawled over his chest. The couches aren't exactly made for two and Clint's insisted on sharing. He was hesitant to let her go that first day, afraid if they separated he'd wake up to find it was all a dream. At least, that's what he told her. She didn't fight him on it, liking the security of his hand around hers.

But now, four days in, she figures he's probably ready to stretch out in his own bed again, but he just shakes his head and with a gentle smile tells her he'll move back to his room when they finish getting hers ready.

They're still waiting on a bed delivery for the attic, since Clint's is going back to the room he originally shared with Tony, as well as a few other things. Things Phil and Tony whispered all conspiratorially about together. Clint had just rolled his eyes and assured her that he wouldn't let them do anything too crazy, but knowing Tony she'll probably have jet repulsers installed under her mattress.

Clint runs his hand over her spine, fingers tracing vertebrae until she feels more like herself, the night somewhat forgotten. She doesn't move though, finding comfort in the rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear, until a pair of shadows descend the stairs.

She sits up with Clint, catching a familiar tint of silver as the shadows step into the light.

Bucky smiles at them, saluting with his metal arm, grinning like a cat because he can do that now. He can do a lot of other things as well: throw a ball, roll out pizza dough, even key words into a computer (it only took two laptops to get it down), but Natasha suspects his favourite thing is being able to wrap that hand around Steve's knowing he won't crush his fingers.

Steve for his part just ducks his head as he sneaks Bucky out the back door.

"Looks like he spent the night," Clint says with a smirk.

Natasha nods against his chest. "Maybe if the furniture comes today we can vacate the couches so Steve and Bucky can stay down here and then they won't have to sneak around."

Clint's smirk twists a little more. "You know Phil would have let him stay over. I don't think Steve and Bucky want to stay down here. There's a reason he snuck him in here in the first place."

Natasha watches the door to the side entrance swing shut after Steve and her cheeks heat a little.

Clint chuckles and pecks her on the nose. "Guess it's good Tony doled out all those condoms, huh?"

She groans and buries her head against his chest, only to be brought back to her senses by a rather offended scoff as the couch cushion dips twice, once for Steve and again for Tony.

"I hate being the sole bachelor in this place," Tony grumps as he collapses beside them, cradling a bowl of cheerios. "You're all a bunch of lovesick puppies." Steve opens his mouth to point out that technically Natasha is the only new addition to the house, but Tony cuts him off with a wave of his spoon. "Oh, please. I could hear you and Iron Fist whispering your sweet nothings to each other on the landing. You know you'll see him later today, right? He'll be the first one in line as soon as Sam puts the new pie batch out."

Steve manages not to blush, but excuses himself with a roll of his eyes. A moment later Natasha can hear the bowls in the kitchen being moved and she knows he's probably looking for his own breakfast.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Clint asks, tugging Natasha closer. "Besides breakfast?"

Steve plucks back down on the couch and gulps down half a glass of juice. "Paint touch-ups in the attic. Furniture delivery. Suckering the delivery guys into actually building the furniture, which won't happen, but I'm still gunna give it a shot."

"What am I?" Tony demands. "Chopped liver?"

"You want to fiddle around with a thousand tiny screws?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Bet I could have built you a bed that floats, Red."

Natasha grimaces. "I was worried about that."

"Yeah, sure. But when you and lover boy there are squeaking the hell out of that thing and Phil comes up to investigate, you'll be singing a different tune."

"My god!" Clint complains, ripping the pillow out from behind his back and hurling it at Tony's face as Steve splutters on his cereal. "You've only been awake for twelve minutes."

"Exactly," Tony says, ducking the throw. "Filter's not properly functioning yet, so you get to endure my raucous train of thought."

For her part, Natasha simply squeezes Clint around the chest and smiles a shy kind of seduction. "That's okay," she whispers to Clint. "He's probably right."

Steve splutters again, but Tony's lips twist at the corners, hovering around his spoon. "Well played, Red."

"Anyway," Clint says for Steve's sake, giving Natasha's hand a squeeze. "You're also training with Tony today. Phil wants you on the payroll ASAP."

"Oh, hell no," Tony says. "I'm not working with her!"

"Why?" Natasha and Clint demand simultaneously.

"Because she'll get all the tips, that's why."

"Says who?" Clint asks.

"Uh, buddy, have you seen your girlfriend? There are two very nice reasons she'll get the tips."

Clint huffs. "You're lucky I'm trapped under Natasha right now, Stark."

"What would Pepper think?" Steve asks.

"Hey, I'm a devoted guy," Tony protests. "But no one said you couldn't window shop. Now if you'll excuse me. I have to go put my face on if I have to compete with that!" He gestures to Natasha before dramatically sauntering out of the room, waving his spoon for effect.

"I'd like to see him do that in a pair of heels," Natasha says.

Steve shakes his head, one hand resting against his temple. "Bucky keeps asking me if I'm sure he's not gay."

"Nah," Clint says. "That's just a melo-dramatic Stark for you. Though he does spend an insane amount of time grooming that goatee of his . . . Wait a sec . . . does that mean . . . no. Bucky thinks you and . . . huh, he's jealous of Tony?"

"I think maybe a little. I keep assuring him Tony is the straightest thing about this place but," he shrugs, "I'm pretty sure he kissed Bruce full on the mouth the other day when they got that patent for that thing they were making with those nano-whatevers. So he's not exactly helping my case."

Clint strokes a hand over Natasha's arm, looking thoughtful. "Don't worry, it'll pass. I was insanely jealous of Bucky when I first met him. I thought maybe he had a thing with Natasha." He laughs. "I wanted to throttle the guy for the better part of the afternoon."

Natasha perks up. "At the football game? Why am I only hearing about this now?"

Clint shrugs. "It passed real fast. As soon as I saw the way he looked at Steve when you introduced the two of them I knew he was a goner."

"And what about you?"

"Tash, I was a goner the first moment I saw you."

Steve's mouth curls up at the edge. "Tony's right; you two really are a lot to take."

**. . .**

Phil Coulson never seems to be happier than when doing something for one of his kids.

Clint always thought, especially as of late, that the world missed out giving Phil biological kids. If there was one person on earth that could have raised a brood of crying infants into adulthood, it would have been Phil. As it was he'd definitely put up with his share of bullshit from the lot of them and there hadn't even been a diaper phase.

Clint still hasn't been able to verbalize it, but Phil, now his adoptive father, is probably the best man he's ever known.

And if Clint thought Phil Coulson got excited attending one of his fost—his son's football games—he'd never seen him spend forty minutes at Target choosing between a purple comforter or one covered in soft blue rectangles.

Clint manoeuvres the red cart, bursting with all manner of girly things (because apparently Natasha gets the fancy smelling shampoo), across the aisle, dodging a robust sales woman and one of those motorized scooters being driven by a wiry haired man with three bags of cat litter in his cart.

"I can't decide."

"Phil, really, she'll like whatever. Natasha's not a picky person."

"I know. I just want her to feel at home."

Clint can't hide his smile at that because he's pretty sure Natasha already does since she practically lived at the dinner for a good chunk of the school year. It's definitely more of a home then her tiny little room in Ivan's apartment had ever been. She didn't even have a bed back then, just an air mattress on the floor. That should all be remedied today though. Yesterday night was her last night bunking in on the couch. Phil made sure of that. And though it's not official since they can't be together if Phil were to adopt Natasha as well, he's probably the closest thing to a guardian that she's had since her mom died. Not that that situation was real stellar either.

Clint sighs, but before Phil can look worried, he shakes off the heavy thoughts and offers an easy grin, "Seriously, Phil. She'll like it all."

Phil nods, hands on his hips as he deliberates. "This is her fresh start; I just want it to be done right."

Clint shrugs in acquiesce, letting that one go, though he can tell there's more to Phil's statement then just wanting a dermatologist approved soap in the house now that Natasha's moved in. Though seriously, there's like a seven dollar price difference between the one in the cart and the one they usually get, plus this stuff kind of smells like goat cheese.

Eventually Phil decides on the purple. Everything in the room is going to be a shade of purple at this rate. They continue to the next aisle which is full of towels and Phil's eyes get a little wider.

Clint snorts, but it's followed by a logistical kind of frown. "We're going to need another cart."

"That's why I brought the van."

"You should have brought the six-foot-four foot-ball captain with the biceps."

"I figured the delivery men would appreciate having him there since there are two flights of stairs between the garage and the attic. Though I'm not sure Steve's even put together as much as a book shelf before."

"Then maybe we shouldn't have put him in charge of the furniture." Scratch that, maybe they shouldn't have left Natasha alone with Tony. But Peggy's there, and so is Sam; they had both taken on some kind of protective edge when it came to Natasha; surely they would be enough to handle Tony. (Was anyone enough to handle Tony?)

"He'll be fine. Bucky's there, too. At least I can trust those two to build it without any additions."

"That is true. Tony probably would have broken out the solder-gun."

"And the whole place would be up in flames."

That's a picture he doesn't want to imagine. Sam would be so angry; it's almost new pie day. Plus the insurance claims for the house and the diner, plus the fact that Tony's got robotics contraptions under his bed with patents that probably number in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Or maybe millions if he ever agrees to hand them over to Pym and stop playing hard to get.

Phil shakes his head, perhaps envisioning a similar scenario. "Just as long as the room gets done today. I want Natasha to feel like she has her own space."

Clint watches for the nervous twitch that accompanies that. Phil bites on his lip as he packs a bunch of hand towels into the cart. Again they had circled around to this sort of thing and Clint doesn't know what it means, but he knows it's something. "Phil?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's be real, you didn't drag me all the way out here to help you pick bed linen."

"There are towels, too."

"Your jokes don't get any better when you deflect."

Phil nods and wraps his hands around the opposite end of the cart. If this wasn't his adoptive dad, Clint might feel as if they're squaring off like some old time western movie, but this is Phil and he's looking at Clint with that sort of resigned softness that he only reserves for when he's about to ask Clint to do something he might not like but that's secretly good for him.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about Natasha."

"So I figured."

"Look, I know it's been kind of a whirlwind since she got here. And I didn't prepare you because I didn't know how long things could take."

"But?"

"I need to make sure we do this right. That we address what happened to her through the proper channels. Once she's settled in, I think she should start seeing Jemma."

"You want her to see a shrink?"

"I know you two dealt with a lot. A lot of it on your own, without telling anyone. And I know she trusts you. More than anyone. So you'll have to be the voice of reason here."

Clint wants to chuckle at himself being called the voice of reason. If anything he's been bull-heading his way through everything, just trying to keep hold of the one thing that mattered most to him. It hasn't been an easy road.

Meeting Natasha, befriending her, loving her hasn't been without hardship. It hasn't been without fight, for either of them, but it's been worth it.

Still, Clint knows you don't walk through the kind of stuff they've both seen without some demons. And it all happened so fast.

Ivan attacked her. She survived twelve weeks between the hospital and foster care before Phil took her in.

And though she was safe now, there were still landmines. He knew that. The tears in the middle of the night told him at least that much. But was she ready to let yet another stranger into her life who wanted to pry into the why's and how's. Dealing with CPS and the system was enough.

"I don't want to push her into something she's not ready for," he says finally.

Phil tilts his head to catch Clint's eye, "Do you remember the first time you saw Jemma?"

Clint shrugs. "I guess. I was angry."

Phil's mouth turns up. "At the world if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, well—"

"And that was your right, Clint. I'm not negating that. But do you remember what happened after you talked to her for the first time?"

Clint looks at his shoes before he makes eye contact with Phil. "I came down to dinner."

"It was the first time you'd agreed to eat with us. The first time you'd said more than five words to me."

Clint sighs. "I was an ass back then."

"You were going through a lot of transitions. That's not what I'm getting at though; where your emotion translated on the outside. Into action. Slamming doors and punching things." Clint winces at that. "I think Natasha's internalizing a lot."

Clint worries his lip for a moment, then says, "She's having nightmares. Bad ones. Almost every night. And she'll cry herself back to sleep. I don't . . . I want to help her. I just don't know—"

Phil catches his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "It's not your job to know how. That's what I'm here for. You just continue to be there for her. I know you understand what it's like to lose things. Natasha's in the same boat here. Ivan may not have been a good part of her life, but that environment was still a large part of it and it's going to take time to come to terms with having to start over."

Another sigh. "You ever get tired of dealing with messed up kids?"

"You're not messed up, Clint. You're mine. And from what I've seen of you lately, I can't tell you how proud I am of the person you're becoming. All of you. You've done some amazing things this last year. All you needed was the chance."

Clint swallows the lump in his throat and laughs away the dewy look in Phil's eyes. "You know, we should stand in the greeting card aisle if you want to get all mushy in Target."

"Yeah, well, I can't help it. I've got some pretty awesome kids." Phil throws a set of grey towels into the cart. "On another note, we _are_ going to have to have a discussion about your report card. There are a couple of things Nick's worried about."

Clint stumbles into the cart, catching himself in the gut with the handle. _Aw hell_ , he'd almost forgotten about report cards.


	2. It Always Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the furniture's built. Natasha's made enough tips to buy celebratory pizza. And Clint's not sure how he feels about it.

Clint and Phil make it back from Target in less than two hours; considering Phil bought out the home décor section as well as a good portion of their linen, Clint calls this a success. He also decides he's going to have to start hitting the weights again once things settle down because his arms are aching from lifting bookshelf boxes in and out of the van.

When they pull into the garage, Clint snags one of the big packaging dolleys Sam uses to move supplies and starts hauling boxes into the house.

He's pleasantly surprised to make it to the top of the attic steps, purchases in hand, to find not a mess of screws and instructions written in French spread out on the floor, but a fully assembled bed: four post, wrought iron, like something out of a medieval fairy tale. It's classically girly, but not childish.

Steve had never put together any kind of furniture before, but as far as Clint can tell, he and Bucky have done a damn good job.

Natasha's room is starting to look like the kind of thing you see on those home reno shows. A cozy little alcove tucked away in the attic.

They work the rest of the afternoon, Phil joining them with lunch and instructions on furniture placement (It's a good thing Bucky and Steve are both jacked because the bed moves five times).

Once the bed's in place, they build shelves, a complicated looking desk (specifically made at Phil's request to fit in a premade nook in the corner of the room), one tallboy dresser, and even manage to hang a mirror without the entire thing crashing down on them.

Phil goes nuts then and they start on the décor. By the time the afternoon sun it whittling in through the window, the room is done up in soft purple hues, with transparent curtains that let the sun paint the room in soft yellow light. The shelves are stacked with books that reach towards the dipped ceiling. Phil redid the closet with some fancy sort of shelving since apparently girls care about that kind of thing, and the bathroom looks like the kind of place he'd have to tip to get in.

It had taken them most of the day, a few loads of laundry, four paint touch ups, and a lot of sweat, but as Clint collapses on the squashy bean bag by the door, he declares it done.

"Don't sit there," Phil all but squeals. "I just fluffed it."

"And I approve of your fluffing," Clint says, arching and stretching out his muscles. "It feels great on the glutes."

Phil hauls him up by the shirt. "Go keep an eye on Natasha. The rest of us will haul the garbage down."

"Yes sir," Clint salutes. He slips off, a spring to his step and a vow to never volunteer to build anything ever again. Plus he didn't want to be on cardboard duty anyway.

. . .

There's something soothing about a completed order: the clink of change on a table and the fond farewell wave Natasha's been receiving from customers all day. The fact that her apron is weighed down with dollar bills might also have something to do with the satisfaction she feels welling up inside her chest.

Natasha bites her cheek and moves on to the next table, coffee pot already in hand as she takes their orders with a smile and a laugh that she's perfected over the course of the last several hours. It's warm enough that people feel at home, but retains enough distance that she can slip around the diner without getting dragged into arduous conversations about the construction downtown or the random string of break ins that have happened in town over the last week. The old-timers think it's a conspiracy and they keep borrowing scraps from her order notebook to draw up complicated diagrams of intersections and housing plots.

Tony rolls his eyes at her when one of the old guys pats her on the arm and slips a five into her hand for refilling his coffee.  She smirks at him over the top of the booth, making his glower exceedingly worse. Peggy is thrilled by this new turn of events and spends the afternoon chuckling her way through cashing out orders, making Tony even more petulant.

Training with Tony has both it's up and downs, Natasha decides. The ups are that waitressing is, in fact, not that hard. After spending so much time here over the course of the last year, she's picked up on things. She knows the ins and outs, the menus, even some of the customers. The ups also happen to be when she swings into the back for supplies and Clint surprises her with a kiss that leaves her dizzy. He's been away all afternoon, on some conspiratorial trip, but she doesn't miss the mass amount of cardboard that is being hauled through the house by Steve and Bucky.

"You know I could have helped build furniture," she says, eyes drifting over his shoulder. "I'm not incompetent."

"I know. They're just excited." Clint looks over his shoulder and snorts when Bucky and Steve try to bench press the jammed recycling bin, only to be hollered at by Phil. He turns back to Natasha. "We've never had a girl around this long, unless you count Peggy. It's just . . . different. Let Phil do the dad thing. He likes to do the _dad_ thing. Trust me."

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, resisting the smile that hints at the word _dad_. Her stomach does a kind of flip-flop that has her feeling a little awkward at all the trouble Phil seems to be going through for her.

After another kiss, this one on the side of her face just below her ear, Clint shoos her back into the diner, tugging on her apron strings a bit.

"Hey, Red! No smoozing in the back room. You've got customers!" Tony calls.

Natasha sighs good-naturedly. The downs of learning the business from Tony . . . well, it's pretty much whenever he opens his mouth.

. . .

It takes Steve and Bucky less time to haul the trash out of Natasha's room then it does for Sam to make an order of pastrami sandwiches, and he's got it down to an art. Clint thinks Steve may have just chucked some of it out the third story widow while Phil was distracted out front taking a rather large pie order for a family reunion.

When he peeks out the garage door and sees Bucky dodging bits of Styrofoam raining down from the sky, he knows he's right.

Clint returns to his spot in the back, watching Natasha and Tony out the galley window, doing that kind of dance you do, passing over and around with trays and drinks and steaming sandwiches fresh off the grill without even brushing a hair.

"How's it going out there?" Steve asks a minute later, his shirt pilled with white pockets of stray Styrofoam.

Clint just smirks. "Tony was right about the tip thing."

"Yes. Apparently," Bucky says coming up behind them, arms crossed. He shares a similar smile, though he eyes the crowd through the window in a way that makes Clint think he might have to restrain him.

"You're not allowed to manhandle the customers," he says. "Even if you do have a cool cybernetic arm. It goes against policy."

"Well, when you get tired of them looking at her like that, you'll know where to find me."

Clint rolls his eyes, attention back on the crowd. It's not that bad. Plus they're all like seventy-five. Of course they're looking at Natasha. She's young and pretty, with a sweet smile and an indulgent laugh. He'd stare at her too if he was ten years past retirement. At least that's what he tells himself, until he spies Pastor Riley in his usual corner booth, ogling Natasha's rear end.

_Oh damn._

. . .

The diner clears out at its usual time and Clint and Steve drop in to help with clean up. Phil's itching to get Natasha upstairs to see the work they've done, plus Clint's just sick of sitting in the back. Now that the customers are gone no one can call him out for sneaking his hands around Natasha's waist.

She stops reaching for the glass across the table when she feels him behind her, instead leaning into the curve of his chest.

"Good day?" he asks, his breath muffled against her shoulder.

She turns against him, snaking her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips. She pulls away, pecking him again for good measure. "I made more tips than Tony," she says. "So I'd say so."

Clint hums at that. "I'm glad, though I can't say I enjoy watching everyone ogle you, and we might have a Bucky problem."

Natasha leans her head against his shoulder and snickers into his shirt.

"I don't know why you're laughing. This was a serious problem today. Your brooding Russian friend was going to string up the whole lot of customers."

"Is that why he's not here now? Did you have to kick him out?"

Clint smirks. "Steve took him for a walk. He's gone home to eat dinner with his mom."

"She'll like that. He misses a lot since he's with Steve most of the time."

"Hey, don't deflect. I'm serious. You're wearing a winter coat when you work from now on."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "I think that's a little unnecessary, don't you?"

"I did, until I watched the pastor tip out of his seat to get a better view of you."

"I don't understand what the big deal is? Peggy's here almost every day."

Clint shrugs. "But she's not front line waitressing unless we're really swamped. Plus Steve's made it very clear on several occasions that if anyone so much as looks at her, he'll deck them."

Natasha's face sours. "Ugh, you're not going to make some manly display like that in front of the customers, are you?"

"Not unless you want me to. Plus I think Bucky might beat me to it."

"He better not. This tip thing is a lucrative business."

Clint laughs. "How much did make exactly?"

"Almost a hundred dollars."

"In just tips? Holy sh—"

"Are you two working here?" Tony demands. "Or are we playing hide the pickle, hmm? Sam's trying to load the dishwasher."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Stark."

Tony glares at them up and down. "I've been subjected to watching Natasha sidle up to customers all day while they ply her with fives. How do you think it got there?"

Natasha fans herself with the wad of bills she pulls from her pocket. "You're just jealous."

"Hell yes I am. Never knew I wanted boobs so bad in my life."

He saunters away then with the tray of glasses that had been on the table and Clint and Natasha burst into a fit of giggles that only resolve when Phil ducks into the front room to call them upstairs.

"Time for the big reveal," Clint says, squeezing her hand.

Natasha smiles.

. . .

 

When she finally sees what they've been working on all day she can't stop smiling.

Clint promptly tosses himself into the middle of her giant bed, tucking his hands behind his head, much to Phil's chagrin. "You like?" he asks with a yawn that makes him look like an oversized five year old tucked into what must be at least twenty pillows.

Steve busies himself making sure Tony doesn't dismantle the rest of the furniture. He's hemming and hawing at everything, more critical than anyone.

"I love it," Natasha say, spinning on her heel to take it all in again.

Clint nods with a contented smile, letting his eyes drift closed.

Natasha turns to Phil, who's been quietly observing from the doorway, just letting her absorb. "This is . . ." There's a lump in her throat that makes it hard to speak and as her jaw opens the tremble throws her words. "I don't know what to say."

She throws herself into Phil's arms, clinging to his chest, because no-one, ever, has gone through this much trouble for her (besides Clint of course). Ivan's had been a disaster, always feeling like some sort of temporary half-way stop. She'd never had a bed to call her own. Never had a dresser to put her things in. Frankly, she'd never had that many things to begin with. But now, this—all _this_ —was for her?

"I take it you like it then?" Phil asks softly as she pulls back.

Her lips twist just a bit as she resists the prick at the back of her eyes. "It's wonderful. Thank you. I don't . . . you didn't—"

"You've made Clint very happy," he whispers so low she doubts the others can hear it. "Before you . . . he was always sort of distant. I don't think he really believed he deserved any of this. But he does, and so do _you_ , Natasha. I want you to feel like part of the family."

She clings a little bit tighter to him, hoping the things she can't say right now are expressed through the hug.

They order pizza to celebrate and Natasha pays because everyone's still astounded by the sheer volume of dollar bills she pulls from her pocket, plus she wants to. The boys had worked so hard all day and maybe this is kind of her thanks. Food is always a good thank-you when it comes to boys.

Tony invites Bruce who's just gotten back from the annual Banner family vacation. He looks exhausted, and not in a good way. From what Natasha's gathered from Tony, Bruce's family is kind of volatile when they're all together and pretending to be happy for the in-laws always puts a lot of strain on him. He seems to relax the moment he steps inside the house though, a weight disappearing, and Tony just seems ecstatic to have his best friend home again.

Thor drops by that night as well (he's been running a drama camp for youth at the town's community center during the day) and approves heartily of the room by slapping them all on the back. He then proceeds to eat half his weight in pizza and beat them all at karaoke.

It's a good night, and as Natasha sits on the couch, snuggled under Clint's arm, it's almost too easy to forget that it hasn't always been like this. That she's had to walk through fire to get here.

And if she knows anything about fire, it's that it always burns.


	3. There's Been So Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Natasha finally spends the night in her own room. Clint also inadvertently spends the night in her room. And Phil and Fury have been talking.

It's a late night by the time they're all ushered up to bed by Phil. He literally corrals them like a bunch of lost sheep, herding with his arms pulled wide and stuffing various blankets and pillows in the hands of their owners—Natasha's still smell like flowery detergent from the wash today and Steve's are striped red, white, and blue. It's a testament to Phil that everyone marches towards the stairs with the correct belongings; then again, Clint doesn't expect anything less of Phil. If there's anything he knows, it's his motley bunch of kids.

Thor waves and lets himself out the garage door, car keys clutched in his right hand, probably on his way to pick his brother up from some party. Apparently Loki's home for the summer and his parents have enforced the usual sibling bonding time on them. Clint feels for him. If there were ever two completely polar opposites, it's those two. Hard to believe they grew up in the same posh, upstate house together. Apparently having big-wig political parents and a lot of disposable cash didn't make for a happy family. Contrary to what Clint grew up thinking—because let's face it, the only thing a stray carnie kid thinks about is having enough money to get out—money really doesn't buy happiness.

Tony's parents were filthy rich: willed him an inheritance big enough to displace the ocean. But they still died and left him and all that money under his name never seemed to make a difference to him. Bruce's parents are well off, too. Enough that the monthly trips to the southern islands don't break the bank or those week-long conferences they're always attending without their son.

Guess even when all the stars align, some things just aren't meant to be.

Phil's not exactly rich, not by the standards of the Stark's or the Banner's or the Odinson's, but the diner does well enough. The regulars keep it full and the tourists in the summer add to the revenue, and there's always enough shifts to go around so Clint's never hurting for spending money. Heck, he hasn't been hurting for anything since he got here. Phil always made sure he was fed (okay, maybe that was Sam) and clothed and had rides places before he got his license and that he could still practice archery.

But none of that was really about money. It was the people. Phil: just being the kind of parent system kids dream about when they cry themselves to sleep at night. Then Tony, with his insane experiments and ass-backwards way of apologizing for things that made you love him even though you wanted to throttle him. And Steve, with his shy smiles and resolute strength and the way he refused to let Clint sulk, even when he was going through the hardest parts of transition.

Then Bruce and Thor and all the staff that worked at the diner happened and Clint's life made a little more sense, even though he still felt out of place a lot. Still felt like an outsider to normalcy. To rules. And let's face it: to the right side of the law.

His juvenile track record wasn't exactly a clean slate and he had one too many skills he picked up as a boy in his carnie days that probably weren't exactly resume worthy.

But he still sort of fit in this dysfunctional little family that Phil put together.

Then Natasha happened and it all changed again when he realized he couldn't live without knowing her. Without loving her. Clint looks at her now—leaning against the railing at the bottom of the staircase, blinking sleepily at him, pillow tucked under her arm, half-a smile twisting her lips—and his chest tightens. That feeling—that contentment— is something money definitely can't buy, and Clint wants to bottle it so he never runs out.

"You okay?" Phil asks him after he's seen Thor off, making sure he doesn't hit the post on the edge of the laneway again. "You look  . . . far away?"

Clint sighs and nods, then wraps a sleepy arm around Phil: an impromptu hug that probably shocks Phil more than anything. "Night," Clint says, cause it's really too late to be having these kinds of thoughts. All he knows is that he's real happy with where his life is right now, and he's not sure who to thank for that, or which god to pray to so nothing changes, but he knows a big part of it is because of the man he gets to call dad now (though it's mostly still Phil cause habits are hard to break). He's the reason Clint knows that Natasha will be safe tonight, tucked away in her very own bed, and there's a great weight that settles against his ribs. There's no way he can ever repay Phil for the things he's done for him, but he's damn well gunna try. Even if he's old and grey by the time he's done.

"Good night," Phil says, looking unabashedly shocked.

Steve takes the opportunity to pat Phil on the shoulder before skirting up the stairs ahead of Natasha as Tony and Bruce hash out the logistics of needing a ride.

Eventually Bruce just opts to take one of the couches. His parents are home for the next few days until they leave for a conference and he'd rather not be there with them. Tony looks delighted as he launches into a conversation about math and equations and ratios and Clint has to block it out to keep from succumbing instantly to sleep.

Phil chuckles and nudges Clint towards Natasha, who takes his hand, squeezes it twice, and then pulls him up the stairs.

He makes it to the top of the landing before the staggering starts. Natasha makes fun of him, but brushes her hand along the back of his neck and kisses him anyway. He must look dopey as he falls into bed, but Tony's not there to see it and for that he's glad. He's given him enough ammunition over the past few days with Natasha being here. _Love sick._ Yeah, he always feels a little dizzy when she's around, but it's the good kind of dizzy, the kind that makes you laugh uncontrollably.

A few soft blinks against his pillow and he's out. It's a good thing too because before he knows it someone's shaking him awake. Or is it a dream? Yeah, it stopped now . . . must just be a dream. He starts to drift off again before he can think too hard about all the . . . _shake, shake, shake_ . . .

"Hey, Clint . . . _shake_ . . . C'mon, man."

He shrugs away from the pressure against his shoulder, squinting as the depths of sleep fade. Has it been minutes? _Shake._ Hours? _Shake_.

"Clint!"

Clint bolts upright in bed, unsure of why at first, until Steve's outline forms against the dark shadows, his eyes bright in what light filters in from the hall. "Time's it?" he asks, blinking at the clock without really registering, falling back on his elbows with a deflated huff.

Steve grabs him by the shirt, hauling him upright again to shake some life into him.

Clint's mouth falls open and he manages to mutter: "S'matter with you?"

"Sounds like Natasha's having a nightmare," Steve says, rubbing his hands along his pajama bottoms, like maybe he's unsure. "I didn't want to . . ." he pauses, features twisting in the shadows. "It should be you who goes up there. I don't want to . . . it's her room and it's dark. I don't want to scare her."

"Right," Clint says, swinging his legs off the side of his bed, and getting a grip on reality. It's amazing how the words NATASHA and NIGHTMARE could register something so strong in him that he could pull himself together even at—he checks the clock again—two-eighteen in the morning. But then again, he'd spent the better part of a year fighting through a living nightmare with Natasha. Maybe his nerves are just a bit too raw when it comes to reliving memories and the bits of past that make you curl in on yourself.

Steve shuffles in the dark. "I wouldn't have woken you. I thought it'd pass . . . that she'd go back to sleep. Only she's not, judging by the sounds coming down the vent, and it's been going on for a while now—"

"S'okay, Steve. I'll wake her up."

Steve nods at that, seemingly satisfied, though he pauses when he turns to leave. "Just be careful _how_ , you know. New place and everything. She might not realize where she is at first."

Clint's not an expert, but he's suffered his fair share of night-sweats, and he knows, at the very least, that she doesn't want to be alone. Even if she doesn't know it herself. But Steve's advice is sound, because he's probably been there himself a time or two. So Clint untangles his feet where the sheets have wrapped around them on the floor, kicking them to the side and stands.  "Course," he says, squeezing Steve's shoulder as he passes. "I got it. Thanks."

He stumbles towards the attic door, and creeps up the stairs, the light disappearing as Steve returns to his own room. He uses both hands on the wall, feeling his way along, because his legs feel a little drunk right now, despite the fact that he's actually rather awake.

The door doesn't squeak when he opens it at the top of the staircase because the hinges are new, but he recognizes a whimper and the thrash of covers as he crosses the room in bare feet, stepping on his toes to avoid the _slap,_ _slap_ of his heels.

"Tash," he whispers from the edge of the bed. She doesn't respond right away, just flips her head, a wave of red curls spilling across her neck, and instead of shaking her awake (he can barely reach her in the middle of the bed where she's settled) and startling her, he simply climbs into bed behind her, tucking himself around her and threading his arms around her waist.

He buries his nose against her shoulder, in that dip along her neck and breaths slow and even. His breath warms her skin and his fingers press soothing circles into her hips.

Eventually the sounds calm and she stops fidgeting, subconsciously realizing that he's there, or at least that something's changed enough to draw her out of sleep. When her hand curls around his he knows she's awake.

She muffles what he thinks is a sob judging by the way she shakes and he tightens his hold just a little more.

"Don't go," she says, turning and whispering the words against his chest. "Don't leave me, Clint."

"I won't," he says.

"I can't lose you, too."

And not for the first time, he wonders what haunts Natasha Romanoff's nightmares, not because he doesn't know what her fears are, but because there's been so many.

**. . .**

He wakes up before her and for a while just watches. He's content, even though he was up for a good hour in the middle of the night. Natasha's bed is (unsurprisingly thanks to Phil) comfortable and the comforter is heavy and thick (perfect for the chilly, air-conditioned attic). It's the kind of snuggly bed that he thinks would be perfect on lazy days, or rainy days, or school days, or . . . how the hell is she ever going to do anything but want to sleep? He's only been here for a few hours and he's considering never leaving. It also might be because Natasha's got one hand wrapped around the bottom of his shirt and he's pretty sure he'd have to cut himself out of it if he wanted to leave.

After a moment Clint decides it's irrelevant because he doesn't really want to go anywhere else and plus Natasha's real cute when she's all tucked up under the covers, lashes casting long shadows against her cheeks and her hair ruffling with the puff of her breath. Also, it's not quite a snore because Natasha Romanoff does not snore (they've sparred over this point of fact), but she definitely makes these little sleep sounds that make him want to giggle, or kiss her, or both? Laugh, then kiss her, he decides. Then duck when she tries to punch him for insinuating that maybe she snores (just a little bit).

As if sensing his gaze, her eyelids start to flutter and her nose wrinkles up, offended by the sun pouring in her window.

Clint would shut the curtains, but she's still got that vice grip on his shirt, so instead he says: "Hey."

She blinks at him half-a-dozen times. "Hi."

He brushes her hair behind her shoulder and she turns her face to kiss his palm. Then her hand flattens against his shirt and he can feel the heat of her skin through the cotton. It's a soft touch, but lingering, almost as if reminding herself that he's real.

"I'm here," he whispers.

"I know," she says, leaning forward enough to drag her lips against his. It's the barest press of lips, almost a fluttering kiss, but the jolt is instant and his heart skips faster. "Thank you for staying," she says and Clint can feel the rumble of her words against his cheek.

"Do you remember it?" he asks.

Natasha stills, but only long enough to look away from him and gather her thoughts, before meeting his eyes. "It's you," she says, and there's more anger in her tone than fear, and for a moment he's confused. "It's always you. Now that Ivan's gone, now that I don't have to be afraid of him. I'm afraid that something's going to happen to you. That he'll get to you, or one of the people he worked with, and I'll lose you . . .  and Clint I-I can't lose any more people I care about."

"Tash, you won't." He strokes her cheek, leaning down to catch her wandering gaze. "You got that? I'm here for good, whether you want me or not."

She furrows her brow, sucking on her bottom lip before shaking her head and letting out a strangled breath. "He's not even here anymore and he's still wrecking my life."

Clint squeezes her hand. "We won't let him."

"I'm still scared, Clint. I know it's stupid. I know—" Her hand flutters down to her hip, unconsciously covering the place where Ivan stabbed her and Clint presses his palm over her hand.

"It's not stupid, Tash." He says, with so much raw emotion that she looks up at him, eyes wide and glassy, watching him like it's the first time she's seeing him. Clint closes his fist, holding it against the scar, the reminder that he almost lost her. It's enough to make his throat thick. He knows about reminders. How things creep up on you because sometimes the scars aren't on your body. Only inside your head. And those can be the worst triggers. Like how sometimes one of the guys will laugh and he'll be whisked back to red-top-tents and horse stables and overpriced carnival rides while Barney's barking laughter fills the stale air. Or how rainstorms in the summer, when it's almost too hot to breathe, will yank him back to dark places and little shadows between the spray that maybe mean more than he's willing to admit because he knew his father never woulda let his truck run off the road like that. He was a drunken bastard but he took care of his truck. But Barney was smart and knew where their father kept the tools. Clint can remember that look in his eyes that morning as he watched the truck peel off the property from the porch, a smug sort of smile on his lips. And he still wonders why Barney didn't say anything when their mom got in the truck that morning with him. She wasn't supposed to go to the market that morning.  She wasn't . . . but maybe Clint's remembering it wrong. He was small. He was . . . _an accident_ , Barney had told him. An accident that left him chilled, even to this day, every time he yanked himself out of a memory of that house. And those are scars he'll carry forever. "Not stupid," he says again, letting the words strangle from his throat.

Natasha blinks once, then her hand pushes him back against the mattress, rolling them both, and she's kissing him. Hard.

Her lips fuse to him with a kind of fiery heat he only feels when he's with her. It's the kind of heat that boils his blood until he wants to rip out of his clothes and feel his skin on hers. As suddenly as the kiss begins, it escalates and Natasha's got her hand under his shirt, deft fingers running over his ribs and dipping down along the waist band of his pajama pants.

She's sprawled over top of him, one leg pressed in between his and if her weight wasn't a nice pressure alone, the way she arches into him like a cat is. It puts her weight in all the right places and before Clint knows it, all the blood in his body is travelling south.

It's the first time they've been alone, really alone, since before the attack happened. After that she was in the hospital and someone was always coming and going, plus it was the hospital and every time he kissed her hello or goodbye things would beep and the nurses would send him dagger eyes. Then she was toted between group homes and he didn't get to see her at all.

And when Phil brought her back, he wasn't exactly concerned with having her all to himself, so long as she was safe, and sharing the couch in the living room didn't make for the most private of venues. But now, they're completely alone . . . just the two of them.

She gasps into his mouth as his hands slide down her back and drop to her ass, giving a squeeze that is both playful and sends her jerking against him.

Clint groans at the contact and Natasha makes a little noise off approval into his mouth, grinding down again so her hips rub up against his and the movement makes her eyes roll back in her head.

He trails a path of kisses down her throat while her head falls back, eyes fluttering at the building sensations, only to return at the whisper of his name.

The kiss is softer this time, yet somehow just as intense and there's a coil twisting in his gut that wants to go off in a million different directions like fireworks: fizzing and snapping and popping and _aww shit_.

"N'tasha, _mmmhh_ ," he pulls his mouth away, sucking in a breath that is far more ragged than he cares to admit. "We can't. We—"

Natasha runs her hand along the bulge in his pants, one eyebrow arched in question. "I think we can."

Clint twitches, mouth falling open, but instead of the groan that's waiting to rip from his throat, he manages: "I mean we shouldn't. Steve can hear everything. Venting runs through his room."

Natasha pauses, rolling off him slightly and he has to think about Tony's latest schematic rant because her lips are kiss swollen and her cheeks are flushed and he so very much wants to pick up where they left off.

"Really?" she says, drumming her fingers against her lips.

Clint flops back on the pillows and nods. "It's how I knew about the nightmare. He heard you. Woke me up. So if he heard that, he'll definitely hear . . ." he swallows and gestures. "You know."

Natasha smirks. "Yes. Wouldn't want him to hear all your sex noises."

Clint stuffs his arms behind his head. "My sex noises? Really, Miss—"

She pounces on him then, lips parting enough to let his tongue explore her mouth and his thoughts trickle away with the feel of her tongue on his. She doesn't let the kiss linger though, and he's sure she looks disappointed as she pulls away just a bit.

"I missed you," he whispers against her lips. "Really, really missed you."

Natasha chuckles low in her throat as she sits up. "I could tell."

Clint rolls his eyes, squeezing her waist enough to make her giggle and squirm away from him. She doesn't get far because he wraps his arms around her like an octopus and hauls her back across the bed, tucking her up against his chest. "I wasn't talking about that, Hot Sauce."

She huffs a breath that tickles his neck. "I know. I missed you, too." And then, after a moment, she says, "But just for the record, I also missed that."

Clint puffs up a little, maybe with a weird sort of male pride. "Good to know."

"Hmm," Natasha hums as she draws patterns against his chest. "So, when's the next time Steve works?"

. . .

Phil pulls them into his office later that afternoon for a conversation that starts with, "We need to talk."

Clint looks at her and cocks his head to the side. "I think Phil's breaking up with us."

It's much later in the afternoon because Natasha spent the morning dozing on and off with Clint. She suspects Steve might have mentioned her nightmare judging by the sympathetic look Phil had given her when they finally emerged around lunch time, the growl of Clint's stomach too much to sleep through by then.

She knew the conversation had stopped there though because Tony simply wiggled his eyebrows at them and Phil had flicked him on the ear and told him to go bus tables.

As they settle into the twin chairs parked in front of Phil's desk, Natasha looks around. It's the first time she's been in here, she thinks. It's small, organized, and essentially plain, except for the mementos on the wall. There's cut outs of stats pertaining to Steve's football games. Articles of Tony and Bruce with Bucky and his new arm. She sees the newspaper of the attack declaring Clint and Steve local heroes. There hadn't been a picture taken, but the paper had used their most recent school photos on the front page. Natasha had known the story had been printed. She hadn't gotten up enough courage to read it though. Truthfully she didn't see a point. Not when she'd lived through it.

The thing that catches her eye next are the report cards that sit on the desk in front of them, one for her and one for Clint, and while they didn't fail, those are definitely not college entry grades.

With everything that happened with Ivan and being bumped around through the foster system, her last semester didn't exactly pan out well.

Clint didn't fare much better, what with being worried about her and all.

"So," Phil says, folding his arms across the desk.

"Ha, yeah, last semester was kind of a freak show," Clint offers, looking as if he's resisting the urge to grimace when he flips the page to see the teacher's comments filled with words like DISTRACTED and MOODY. His eyes scrunch up. "I was definitely not moody! It's just my resting face."

Natasha pats his arm sympathetically.

Phil gathers up the two reports and sticks them on top of a black filing cabinet. "I've been talking to Nick. The school's obviously aware that there were extenuating circumstances involved, but now that things have . . . settled down a bit, he thinks the best thing for you two to do is enroll in some online classes over the summer. Your senior year is coming up and you want your marks as good as you can get them now that you're looking at college. It's an easy way to make up the credits without having to drag your butts into a classroom."

"Summer school?" Clint huffs.

"Hey, I'm not actually making you _go_ to school."

"Sure, sure," Clint says. "We'll thank you when we're older, right?"

"You will when the college applications roll around."

Clint side-eyes Natasha and she works very diligently to school her face so as not to laugh at his antics. "Maybe it won't be that bad," she offers. "Tony and Bruce will be around a lot. They can help."

"Ha!" Clint says. "Maybe if you want your papers written in binary."


	4. Beneath the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Steve's been here before. Clint's a good boyfriend. And Natasha opens her first paycheck.

The day after Steve wakes him up for the third night in a row, Clint thinks it might be time to mention talking to some outside help, if only to let Steve sleep through the night. But when Natasha buries her face in his shoulder, chin wet, and huffs a few broken sobs against his skin, he knows he can't, not yet.

The next night, when he's prodded out of bed at some ungodly hour, Steve points him in the direction of downstairs.

Scratching his head to smooth out the indents made from his pillow, Clint stumbles down the hall and through the kitchen, somewhat disoriented until he hits the fresh air.

He finds Natasha sitting outside on the back porch swing, a silver shadow under the heavy moon, except where her hair falls over her shoulders, highlighted in shades of misty orange, like the first breaks of dawn. It’s longer now than it was, grown out in the time they’ve been together. Clint likes it long. Likes getting his fingers snagged in the tangles. Likes the way it flips over her shoulder in a twisted ponytail while she takes orders. Likes the way her nose scrunches when he tugs on the ends to get her attention. Most of all he likes the slip of it against his skin, silk on silk, when they lie beside each other.

Her knees are drawn up to her chest, chin balanced in a way that must be uncomfortable, but she rocks gently and maybe the sway is enough to loosen the muscles. 

“You’re up late,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face because he can still see dark sleep shapes at the back of his eyes. “Or early. You know what time it is, right?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, not turning, which tells him she knew he was there; probably heard him clunking across the loose stones at the side of the house.

“Nightmares?” he ventures, and her lack of response is telling enough. “Tasha, you know you could have gotten me.”

“It wasn’t really bad.” Her head tilts and her hands fall to her feet, tugging stray blades of grass from her slippers. They’re dewy from the evening rain. She’ll have to throw them in the dryer or else risk leaving swamp thing footprints throughout the house. She lets out a sigh, then looks up. “I don’t even remember what happened. It’s just the feeling. The—” 

“Tightness?” Clint says. “In your chest.”

She reaches for him then, latching onto his fingers and squeezing until it becomes a tug that brings him down on the swing beside her. “It’s like I’m drowning.”

"Do you want to talk about it . . . with someone? Someone other than me?"

"How can I?" she says. "When every time I open my mouth I can't breathe?"

So Clint sits with her under the moon, and the next morning he does the only thing he can and offers to swap rooms with Steve for a while.

Steve sits on the offer for a minute, knuckles under his chin as he contemplates his cereal. "That helps me," he finally says, "but it doesn't help her."

Clint sighs, staring at his toast, not as hungry as he first thought. Maybe he needed some jam. He does that, stuffs a piece in his mouth and swallows. "Phil wants me to get her to see Jemma," he says. He swallows again. "But I don't think she wants to talk yet."

Steve leans against the counter. "Maybe not with a stranger. Jemma's nice, but she still doesn't know Natasha. It's intimidating." He rubs at his elbows. "Let me think on it a bit."

He leaves then, brushing from the room in that deliberate way he has about him when he's got a mission on the mind, and Clint shrugs around a mouthful of toast, wondering what exactly there is for Steve to think about.

. . .

Clint doesn't see Natasha for the rest of the morning because she's getting a few more hours of rest on the living room couch, seeming to do better when there's a flurry of people and movement around the house. The thing about being blasted awake in the middle of the night is that the sleep deprivation eventually catches up, and at some point it didn't really matter how much cover-up she applied, there were still dark circles, heavy under her green eyes.

Phil's been making that pinched, worried _dad_ face about the whole thing, even as he remembers to leave an extra blanket at the end of the couch for her because she's always cold, but Clint tells him he's dealing with it in that shoulder-shrug kind of way. That Natasha's working through it, even if he's not sure she is. The nightmares keep happening, and he keeps holding her through the aftermath, but he's not sure it's enough anymore; just him being there.

Clint puts his time in at the diner, bussing tables and taking orders until he's relieved in the early afternoon. Before he clocks out Phil makes the rounds and deposits two brown envelopes in his hand, one for him and the other for Natasha. Clint tips his head in thanks, then slips through the kitchen door, snagging a sandwich from Sam. He inhales it in three bites, shucks his apron and tosses it on a hook in the back, happy to find Natasha waiting for him in the living room, looking much more awake with his laptop open on her thighs.

She's still bundled up on the couch because the house is freezing in the summer with the air pumping on high. Despite the erratic temperatures of the house, her clothes are simple: black leggings and a navy cardigan over a plain grey V-neck tee. But she's beautiful.

She's always beautiful, even like this: batting sleepy doe eyes at him.

Plus the tee is form fitting and doesn't exactly do anything to hide her figure (or her bust) and as Clint slumps down next to her, he doesn't exactly hide the appreciative glance.

She crooks an eyebrow in his direction, looking up from her school work.

He presses a kiss to her face, along her jaw because he can't reach her lips from this angle. "I like this shirt," he says, smiling cheekily, knowing he's been caught.

A gentle flush creeps down from her cheek bones but she smiles back at him, just as teasing. "Why do you think I wear it?"

"Because your other's in the wash?"

Natasha's lips twist into not-quite-a-smile and she sighs. "That too."

She hadn't exactly come to the house with a plethora of things: clothes included. Everything she owns is kind of sparse. And though they filled up her room with stuff, there's still only one bag's worth of what Clint would call personal belongings filling up her closet.

They hadn't exactly had the time to expand that. Yet.

But maybe today. Thanks to Phil.

They're both off for the afternoon—him because he swapped shifts with Steve and Natasha because Phil's giving her a break. But it just so happens that Clint has aligned everything on a Friday, so they can't possibly be behind on homework, though that's usually him more than her.

He rubs the envelopes in his hands together and smiles.

It also happens to be payday.

It's their first one since Natasha started at the diner and when he slides it over to her, she grins and tears the envelope, staring at the cheque in her hands, eyes so wide it's almost funny. At least until she draws her bottom lip into her mouth and looks at him with warm wonder on her face.

"What?" he asks fondly.

"This is all mine?" she says, just a hint of disbelief.

"That's generally how a paycheck works," Clint laughs, squeezing her leg.

She laughs under her breath, fidgeting in her seat, before flipping her head so fast her hair brushes the front of his face. "Can we go shopping?"

"I don't see why not." He stretches his hands behind his head, watching the strange play of emotion on her face. "Why's this different than the tips you’ve been earning?"

Natasha shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "This has my name on it. It means . . ." she pauses, looking for the right words. "It just makes it real."

. . .

They take the van and drive out of town and into the next one.

The mall is characteristically busy for a Friday afternoon, but he's not one to complain when it means Natasha slides her hand into his and squeezes.

Their first stop is the small bank teller to cash their cheques before they shut down for the weekend. Pockets significantly heavier, Clint lets Natasha pull him around the mall. He was never a 'shopper' by nature and a bunch of stuffy stores is definitely not his idea of fun, but even this is different with her and he finds he doesn't mind tailing her around so much.

Natasha's a practical shopper and she knows her sizes so there's very little time spent in change rooms; mostly just at the check-out counter. She's just replacing the staples today anyway, so there's a method to her madness which takes the edge off of the usual perusing nature of going to the mall.

Clint picks himself out a few new things as well, sometimes leaving Natasha to wander down aisles so he can sort through different washes of jeans.

They spend some time in the book store as well. Clint has his foot prodded on twice by a pack of five year olds that escape from the model train display meant to occupy children, but he can't help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest as Natasha shakes her head at him.

She picks heavy books off the shelf, written in spirally Cyrillic, and he wishes he knew what they said, but he doesn't poke, instead letting her have this tiny piece of her past that can obviously still make her smile and goes to pick out one of the new car magazines for Phil because Lola's starting to sound a bit wheezy. If he doesn't want Tony dismantling his most prized possession, then Phil's got to get around to replacing some of her parts and maybe the magazine will be enough of a push. Knowing Tony the car would probably fly when he was done with it, and as cool as Phil is, Clint doesn't know if he could pull off a flying car as well as Marty McFly.

Eventually they pay and Clint finds himself holding more of her bags than his own, but he supposes this is just one of those boyfriend things.

There's a stop for shoes which is kind of amusing because there's the practical things like runners and flip flops for the beach since there's apparently a bikini in one of these bags that he didn't know she bought; he finds it while she's slipping into a pair of heels that would be considered fun, not practical.

When his brows hit his hairline, Natasha kneels down to where he's collapsed on the floor with their purchases, and pecks his lips.

She slides the bikini back in the bag, chuckling because he's probably blinking like a puppy, but really, he's seen more string on a shoe lace. That doesn't stop him from wanting to see her in it though.

She laughs at him again as his shock bleeds into a dopey grin and he jumps to his feet to catch her as she rises. In the heels—a slinky black pair— she's almost as tall as him, and it makes catching her lips that much easier.

Her eyes twinkle as she pulls away and the heels make the cut. As they leave the store, Clint's glad for the extra hours he's been putting in at the gym because shoes and jeans are damn heavy.

Clint staggers at their last stop because it's a lingerie store and he kind of, sort of feels like there's a force field around it that shouldn't let him in. There are women dressed in tailored black suits manning the aisles, and the occasional woman perusing racks upon racks of bras. Bras. Bras. _Bras_. It must be like some kind of girl heaven, and as much as he likes to look, especially when it's on Natasha, something about this seems leery and he feels himself leaning further away from the store, like some magnetic evil is pushing him out.

"I'll just park it on a bench," he says.

Natasha simply snickers and grabs his elbow, yanking him inside.

He crosses the threshold and half-expects to be jumped by a horde of ninja saleswomen, but instead he receives both sympathetic smiles from some and sweet looks because as some of them inform Natasha, " _he's such a sweet boyfriend_."

Clint tries not to look around too much since the displays are kind of _BOING!_ in your face. He's also really trying not to imagine Natasha in some of the more risqué getups because those thoughts go straight to his groin, so he sighs audibly when Natasha drags him to the back of the store where the merchandise is much more practical.

 _Every day wear_ is written in bold white letters across the bulkhead of the ceiling and Clint watches as Natasha begins the painstaking process of sorting through sizes and colours in little wheelie drawers.

When she's assembled several that she deems suitable, she inclines her head to the fitting rooms. "These I have to try on," she says.

Clint purses his lips, looking sort of confused. He shuffles their bags around and with his free hand makes a vague sweeping gesture. "Don't you already sort of know what size . . . I mean that doesn't really change, does it?"

Natasha closes her eyes for a brief second, masking some internal desire to break down in a fit of giggles he guesses. "You're cute, you know that?" She pecks him on the cheek then. "I'd invite you in, but your absence will probably be noticed."

Clint balks at the idea of watching Natasha in the fitting room and his cheeks remain a hot shade of red the entire time he sits in the waiting area probably designed exactly for people like him.

When they leave the store, Natasha manages to hook her arm around his, despite everything he's carrying. She swings a dainty little black and pink bag off her fingers and if Clint sees a little more frill and lace than she disappeared into the change room with, then . . . _eh_ , who is he to complain?

"Was that a test?" he asks.

"Of course," Natasha says. "But you passed."

"What do I win?"

She simply wiggles her eyebrows and for the rest of the afternoon all Clint can do is think about frills and lace and too tiny bikini's and it drives him sort of mental.

When their money is almost gone, Clint ditches everything in the van and they go to the food court. They stretch out across a booth, eating ice cream while they decide on a main course, and Clint has a hard time pulling his hands away from her.

Natasha seems to enjoy the attention though, and lets him run his hand up and down her thigh, fingers tracing circles above her knee.

"So seriously," he says, "is that in the how to be a girl handbook or something? Boyfriend initiation?"

"Yes," Natasha's tongue sweeps around the side of her cone. "Right beside the section on making your boyfriend by tampons."

"I would do that for you, too. Just so you know."

"I know," she says. "You're a good boyfriend."

"Those bra ladies seemed to think so."

"Women still admire a man willing to carry a woman's under things. It's very chivalrous."

"Do I ever get to see you in any of these under things?"

"I think you've earned it." She gives him a dark look that heats his blood and he leans in for a kiss that is probably not suitable for the middle of a mall but people aren't paying attention and her lips are cold and sweet.

He pulls away when he feels ice cream dripping down his hand. "You know you make me crazy, right?"

Natasha makes a satisfied noise in the back of her throat. "I try. Now we either need to take this somewhere less public, or you need to buy me food."

Clint leans back and barks a laugh. "That's very specific."

"Well, there are children here, and that pizza place does smell really good."

Clint pecks her cheek one more time. "You're right. Pizza first. Other things later."

Natasha smiles as he pulls out his wallet. "You really _are_ a good boyfriend."

"I am the _best_ boyfriend."

"Yes," she says with a kind of sincerity that makes his heart stumble. "You are."

. . .

The drive back home feels too short, but Natasha holds his hand the entire time and it feels right. Clint's a little taken aback at this new normal they've got going on. Going to a mall—spending the afternoon out with his girlfriend without some ulterior motive meant to keep her away from Ivan—is a new experience for them both.

Having the freedom to do normal teenager things without the fear of repercussion or the worry that when he drops her off he'll never see her again, is  . . . amazing to say the least.

Clint's glad they still get along the way they do, that the synchronicity they found together hasn't disappeared now that it's not bred by fear and loneliness. There's something very real between them and it's only getting stronger.

A bead of warmth trails its way across his chest as he watches Natasha out the corner of his eye. She's curled up in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, nursing her lemonade in one hand and tracing patterns against his palm with the other. He knows she's thinking hard about something because of the way she'll start and stop the motions, but he doesn't interrupt because the look on her face is happily satisfied and he's not through with looking yet.

Most of the drive is spent in the same companionable silence and when Clint pulls into the garage it's to find Tony hauling the day's trash out.

"Do we need to steam clean the seats?" he asks, chucking a black garbage back across the cement.

"Oh my god, Tony," Clint huffs, circling the van and popping the trunk. Tony hangs back and admires his neat packing job. "We were at the mall."

"Which has parking lots."

"Your point?"

"Just make sure you sanitize the steering wheel at least."

Natasha rolls her eyes, coming up the other side of the van as Tony slips out to drag the bags to the curb. "He's literally impossible," she says. "I don't know why Pepper puts up with him."

Clint stuffs as many bags under his arms as he can. It's enough that Natasha can take the rest with one hand and close the trunk with her free one. This also makes her the one in charge of opening doors. "I thought they weren't really a thing," he says, nodding to Steve as they slip up the stairs towards the attic. "Isn't she still playing hard to get?"

"She's agreed to let him call her on the phone while she's away at her co-op for the summer," Natasha says, opening the door to her room, "which for Tony is a pretty big win. He's called her almost every night I've been here."

Clint sags and drops their purchases on the floor, sighing with visible relief and massaging out his hands.

Natasha takes his hands in hers with a sympathetic smile. "I know Tony talks a big game, but I think he's secretly afraid she'll run off with some budding law student before he has a chance to catch up to her."

"If she was smart she would." Clint pecks her on the nose before launching himself onto her bed, spread eagle. He exhales into the comforter and lets his eyes flutter closed as Natasha starts unpacking.

"I think that's part of the problem," she says. He can hear her disappear into the bathroom, probably to drag out her laundry hamper and her voice comes out tinny as it echoes in the small room. "Pepper's almost too smart for him. He can't use any of his usual bullshit on her. It's making him act like a normal person."

"Ha!" Clint grunts into the bed, the scent of fabric softener and Natasha heavy in his nose. It's soothing and he feels like sleeping. "Tony doesn't do normal."

"Exactly. I heard him the other night and he actually went a whole twelve minutes without making a lewd comment while they were talking."

"We should invite Pepper over more. Tony would be a completely different person."

"Hmm," Natasha hums.

When she doesn't say anything else, instead going very quiet, Clint opens his eyes and pops his head up. She's pulling price tags off a new leather jacket he never saw her try on. She shrugs it on now and flips her hair over the collar before spinning in front of the mirror. It's a light brown colour and cinches near her waist, making her look like she should be on the back of Steve's bike.

"I like that," he murmurs.

She smiles at him over her shoulder before pulling it off and hanging it in her closet.

"What is it?" he asks when she spends too long staring at the placement of the hangar. There's literally only ten things hung up right now. There's not that much to inspect.

Natasha shakes her head, organizing her thoughts. She moves to the edge of the bed, hip leaning against the mattress next to where he's sprawled out. "Am I a different person than who you met?" she asks.

Her arms are folded over her chest and he doesn't know whether it's a subconscious shield, or if maybe she's afraid of the answer he'll give.

He thinks about it a moment, trailing his hand up and down her hip. "In some ways," he says. "You were always strong, always determined. But now, after everything, it's a different strength." He rolls onto his side to look at her more carefully, like he's trying to peer inside her head. "I think you're happier now than you were . . . at least I hope."

A smile splits her lips at that and she sits on the edge of the bed, reaching up to cup his face, a thoughtful look in her eyes. "You make me very happy, Clint."

"I just wanted you to be safe, more than anything."

"I know."

"But then you loved me back. That was the most surprising change, I think."

Natasha bites her lip, hiding an impossible sort of laugh. "How could I not?"

Eyes flutter closed and lips meet somewhere in the middle and it's not the fiery passionate thing Clint's used to when they're alone, but tender and slow in a way that speaks of home and warmth and care.

He cares about her deep inside his bones where no one can see.

They stay like that, tucked up next to each other, until the sun disappears completely and Steve knocks on the door, telling them to come down for a late dinner.

They're both still stuffed from pizza at the mall, but there'll be pie (thanks to Sam) and Phil likes to catch up with everyone at the end of the day, so they shuffle downstairs and take their seats at the table.

That night, after dinner, Steve drags Natasha down to the mats in the basement and they spar. They go at it until they're both sweaty and Natasha's learned to flip a man twice her size.

There are no nightmares that night and when Clint meets Steve in the bathroom the next morning he grabs his toothbrush and says, "How did you know?"

Steve shrugs. "Talking it out doesn't always do the trick. I know they say it does, that it's good to express emotions, but the truth is that people won't share until they're ready. But getting up, getting moving feels like you're actually doing something about it. Like you can stuff the problem away, even if just for a little bit, to focus on something else. Something tangible." He knocks his toothbrush against the side of the sink and looks down at his hands. "It always helped me. After my mom died I dreamed about her. Losing her. Nightmares were worse than the real thing sometimes. So I started running. Then boxing. You sleep right through when you're that exhausted."

So they keep it up (Clint has the bruises to prove it) and it seems to work.

And it will, as long as the demons don't surface outside the nightmares.


	5. It's Where my Demons Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the landmines trigger. Tony's a good brother (but don't go spreading it around). And Phil thinks it's time.

Clint officially hates summer school. He hates how long he has to spend staring at indecipherable scans of teacher's explanations to math problems. "Is this an X?" he asks Bruce one afternoon while they're perched at the kitchen table, sampling as assortment of leftover breakfast pastries. With a constant supply of teenagers in the house, nothing in the diner ever goes to waste, and when they're worried about it, they call Thor.

"I think that's just a stain," Bruce offers, licking a lump of cream-cheese frosting from his thumb. "Coffee, maybe?"

Clint stuffs his pencil behind his ear and whips out his eraser, rubbing ruthlessly at the paper as he grunts, "That would make more sense."

At that a steaming mug of coffee is set beside him and Clint looks up into warm green eyes and his heart stutters, "You literally read my mind."

Natasha smiles and takes a healthy sip from her own mug, a silent thanks in the way her eyes flutter closed for half-a-second. "I am a genius," she says, slinking away to let him study. He watches her plop down on the couch in the living room, right between Bucky and Steve—her best friend from back home and someone who could possibly be becoming like a brother. They make room for her, dwarfing her, and Clint takes a moment to appreciate what his life is—lazy afternoons with friends, a girlfriend he can't get enough of, and impossible parabolas.

"That's wrong! You can't cross multiply that. The parabola will look like an iceberg." Clint looks up to find Tony shaking his head at him. "Some people."

Clint huffs and pushes the sheet of paper away. "You do it then."

Expecting one of Tony's saucy remarks he drops his head down against his arms, pillowed on the table beneath his chin, but to his surprise, Tony slumps down next to him at the table, pulls out a stack of graph paper from Clint's binder and starts labeling coordinates. "Look," he says gently, "I'll show you."

And that's possibly how Clint passes his math credit, though he'll never admit it because Tony's head is already swollen enough. Anymore and he'll stop fitting through doorways.

. . .

As much as Tony had helped with math, Clint's still juggling two other subjects and he leaves everything else to the very last second. He finally realizes this might not be the best way to go about it when he spends several late nights with Natasha by his side as she helps him proof read assignments.

"Your grammar looks fine but I don't really know much about American history," she says through a yawn, rubbing at her tired eyes with the heel of her hands. "But if you want to know about the fall of Russia I'm an open book."

Clint snorts. "Does anyone want to know about the fall of Russia?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry I'm not helping."

He absently runs a hand over his head, feeling a twinge of regret in his stomach because he knows he's the reason she's still awake. "You're helping," he assures her, "trust me." He blinks like an owl at the screen. "Is this enough words?"

She laughs a bit, but it gets muffled in the collar of his sweatshirt. She's taken to stealing his sweats a lot to sleep in. "Clint, you just wrote the same sentence twice."

"Yeah," he says, gesturing pathetically at the screen. "But words."

Natasha shakes her head, dropping down against his shoulder.

"Are you guys still up?" Steve asks. He filters through the kitchen and dumps his mug into the kitchen sink before filling it with warm water.

"Just gotta finish this stupid paper," Clint explains, glancing up at the clock. There was almost no sense in even going to bed now.

"When's it due?"

"Seven."

"As in like five hours from now?" It's said with the same type of disappointed authority that Phil uses when he was trying to get them to make good on their mistakes, and Clint might have had half a mind to look ashamed if he wasn't so damn tired.

Steve looks at the clock again and then sighs. "Let me look at it. We both know I'm better at history."

"Yeah, okay," Clint concedes. "Thanks."

They all move to the couch where there's more room and pillows (PILLOWS!). Natasha gravitates towards one immediately and wraps herself around it like an octopus. Clint watches her stretch like a cat before shuffling over to him. Sometime between two-thirty and three she collapses across his lap, patting Steve's knee twice with a murmured thanks.

Clint manages to stay awake long enough to hear Steve tell him that the New England Patriots were in the Super Bowl, not the Civil War. The assignment's submitted by four and the three of them are woken around seven, untangling limbs, and stretching out cramped muscles, when Tony comes down the stairs, scratching his head and declaring loudly, "I don't even wanna know!"

. . .

Near the end of July Phil receives a phone call from child protective services. They're coming for an inspection because this is the place Natasha's chosen to reside in as an emancipated youth.

The paperwork is almost finalized, but they want to inspect the place she'll be living for safety and such. Phil tidies like his hands are burning and on that particular day sends Clint out with an errand list as long as his arm. It's like he thinks Clint's stupid enough to publically announce their relationship during the inspection.

To his chagrin Steve is assigned to watch him.

"It's the way you look at her," Steve says filling the shopping cart with orange juice and cough syrup. (Tony's somehow picked up the world's worst cold in the middle of a summer heatwave).

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve pushes the cart into the next aisle, manoeuvring around young mothers and elderly women who get shell shocked at the sight of him and Clint doing the Sunday shopping. "You can't help it, I expect. It's just the way it is."

"Which is what? I don't ogle my girlfriend." Clint chucks a package of Oreo's into the cart. "At least not when other people are around."

Steve snickers. "That's not what I mean. You sort of watch her like she's your world. I don't think you could manage not to do that." He puts Clint's Oreo's back on the shelf.

Clint waits until Steve's distracted then slips a package of the double-stuffed ones in the cart instead (Natasha likes them better anyway). Then: "So chaperone, where're we off to next?"

. . .

In retrospect Clint wishes he hadn't asked because they proceed to go to another two grocery stores, one health food market, the dry cleaners, Target (Clint forever hates that store now),  and the hardware store to look for three very tiny screws that Phil needs to fix the remote.

By the time they roll into the driveway, Clint's had enough of people and bails on his shift in the diner. It's dead enough that Peggy can run orders up to Sam and one of the day ladies agrees to hang out for some extra summer spending money (her kids' birthday is coming up and he's asked for an IPod).

Clint finds Natasha leafing through a magazine on the couch, head hanging lazily off the cushion like she's been there for a while. He plops down next to her and she sits up to meet him for a kiss.

"How'd it go?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Good. Phil stopped sweating eventually. It was this nice, older woman who did the inspection. Mid-forties. Pretty." Natasha crooks an eyebrow. "Single. I don't think I've ever seen Phil blush like that."

Tony eavesdrops on the conversation as he enters from the diner and walks away smirking. "Oh, Philip! Did you meet a lady friend?"

Clint snorts, scrunching up a face. He runs a hand over the back of his head before stringing it around her shoulder, and then asks: "Really?"

Natasha nods emphatically. "It was sort of sweet. And then awkward. I think I was third-wheeled at one point so I went to work for a while. She literally just left before you came home."

They can hear Tony from the kitchen. "What was her name, Philip?"

"Rosalind," Natasha whispers. "She's nice."

"Nice like Granma sweaters nice or—"

"Nice like tailored suits and black pumps." Natasha's lip curls up so she clearly approves. "Independent sort. They were bonding over vintage Captain America comics at one point."

And then: "Aw, c'mon Pops, I'm just teasing. Old people need loving, too!"

Clint's pretty sure it's Phil who drops the sugar bowl. Whether he had been aiming for Tony or not is still a mystery.

"Well, aside from Phil's love life, how was the rest of the inspection?"

Natasha looks contemplative, but not concerned. "Good, I think. It's up to the courts now."

. . .

With the inspection out of the way, summer school winding down, and Natasha's nightmares under control thanks to a very specific sparring regime, Clint figures the worst of everything is over.

That is until two nights later when they're minding the diner. It's an all hands on deck kind of Saturday night. They’ve got a fiftieth birthday bash and a retirement party going on at the same time and Natasha's raking in tips like a mad-woman.

Tony and Steve are both running orders because they're coming as fast as Natasha brings them out, and Clint's been hauled into the back, running sandwiches beside Sam. It's a soothing kind of process—meat, cheese, sauerkraut, _go!_ But that bell Tony keeps dinging is starting to make him twitch a little. Sam chuckles under his breath, flips one of the hot sandwiches off the grill and turns the radio up until it drowns out the din of the diner.

They get into a rhythm and when Tony comes into the back for a tray restock, Sam nods his head at Clint and tells him he can probably go on and take a break if he wants.

"Sweating already?" Tony teases.

Clint laughs, plopping down at the table and Tony kicks out the swinging door towards the restaurant and that's when he collides, tray to tray with Natasha—his unloading pastrami across the counter and hers shattering empty glasses bound for the wash along the length of the floor. It all unfolds in snapshots for Clint as he watches through the swinging door, each opening revealing a new level of shocked on Natasha's face as she stands in the midst of broken dishes.

Phil is the first to react; he's the closest. He's reaching for them before all the noise and bustle has even stopped, some parental instinct kicking in like maybe he can stop the mess before it occurs.

But he can't. And instead of catching the tray, his hand wraps around air, right beside Natasha's head.

Now, it isn't a huge deal (a huge mess, yes); but they drop shit all the time.

No, it's Natasha's reaction that triggers everyone in that instant—that brings Clint to his feet because he knows something's wrong. It's in her eyes, widened to the point of pain before they clamp shut. The way she flinches away from Phil's hand, like she's expecting some sort of contact. The way she spins away, cowering in on herself.

And it all happens in an instant.

The glass shattering throws her into a full-fledged panic attack and Clint barely swings the door wide again before she's tumbling through it, throwing herself into his arms, clinging to him hard enough to bruise them both, and immediately he's transported back to the fight with Ivan: the glass shattering as Steve cracked the mirror over his head, bursts of glass crunching under his shoes as he wrapped himself around Natasha, begging her not to bleed out before the paramedics arrived.

It's painful to remember, but almost more painful to relive as they stagger to the floor in the back room, Natasha gasping against his collar bone, struggling to breathe the same way she had then.

And Clint feels just as helpless.

"Tash," he whispers against her skin, voice rising as she starts to splutter. He can feel her chest go concave against his. They're both shaking. "N'tasha," he tries again, feeling the hot panic of tears at the back of his eyes.

But then suddenly Sam's there, peeling her off him, pulling her face up and he can see it in her eyes; she's not there at all, not with them. She's lost somewhere in one of her nightmares. Stranded with Ivan.

And the breaths come faster. Stilted. Choking. She's choking on the air.

"Natasha," Sam says forcefully, but calm.

She inhales sharply, turning her head, rigid as a board. There's one thing Clint reads on her as Sam wraps his hands around her shoulders: escape.

"Natasha, I want you to take a deep breath for me. That's it." Sam takes her hand and guides it to Clint's chest. "I want you to breathe with Clint, okay? Ready? Big breath in." He pauses, so does Clint. "And release."

Clint blows out the breath, Natasha mimicking him, her hand pressed flat over his heart. She can probably feel his pulse bounding right through his shirt, the heat of his skin under her palm, the silent panic rushing under his skin. It's all there, brushing right at the surface.

"That's good," Sam says. "Real good, Natasha."

They continue like that for a while, and Clint loses count, just focusing on his breathing and the look in Natasha's eyes. It's clearer now he thinks; he hopes.

"Natasha, do you know where you are?" Sam asks when Clint doesn't feel his pulse beat anymore.

She nods heavily, eyes scrunching up as everything breaks over her; it's emotional and draining and with Sam's help, Clint gets her into the house and onto the couch.

There Clint sits with her and she cries.

It's hard because he wants to fix it, make it better, stop whatever's making her upset, but he knows these are those scars people have. The ones they carry on the inside that you can never see. So instead he holds her and rubs his hands down her spine and jut lets her cry. It's the second hardest thing he's ever had to do in his life.

. . .

Phil joins them later, when Natasha's calmed and the scene in the diner's been taken care of. His eyes are wide and sad as he looks at her, not just because he knows that she's going through a lot, but because he'd been part of what triggered her. The last thing he ever wants is for Natasha to be afraid of him. Clint knows this. He suspects Natasha knows this too, but she's feeling utterly ridiculous right now because this is Phil: the man who took her in when she had nowhere else to go. The man that brought her back to Clint.

She mops up the tears that escape her eyes as Phil takes a seat on the couch, leaving a generous amount of space between them. This makes Natasha sob and she dabs at her eyes again. "I'm sorry," she croaks.

"You, my sweet girl, have nothing to be sorry about," Phil tells her.

She looks up at him, eyes watery, and Clint's heart breaks all over again. "The mess . . . I should go back."

Clint squeezes her a little tighter as Phil says, "Tony's on it." So for another moment Clint just sits there and holds her.

When the silence is less suffocating, Phil shifts in his seat enough to look Natasha in the eye. "I think it would be a really good idea for you to talk this through with someone."

Clint waits with bated breath as Natasha furrows her brows, deep in thought. Eventually though, she nods. It's all they need.

. . .

Natasha's first session with Jemma is on a Thursday. Steve takes her afternoon shift and the two women sit in Phil's office, the door closed for the better part of an hour.

She tries not to look flighty or trapped, but she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them because the questions aren't exactly hard to answer, but saying it out loud makes everything real.

Jemma must notice the way she avoids looking directly at the article Phil has pinned to the wall—the one of Clint and Steve from _that_ day—because eventually she pulls it off the wall and asks Natasha if she's read it.

It's not exactly awkward at first, just quiet as Natasha feels out this new situation. Feels out how they work . . . together. But Jemma's good at her job and she's been around the block before with the other kids in the house so she knows how to help Natasha, how to take her back to that day, those triggers, and teach her not to be triggered by the sensory images anymore.

It's the first of many, but the sessions help.

Natasha opens up; she talks to Jemma, not exactly the way she can talk to Clint, but it's close. And having someone else, someone to validate helps.

And eventually, during one session, Jemma pulls the article off the wall again and Natasha reads it out loud. She stops twice for breath because the pictures the words paint leave her breathless, but she finishes it and though she doesn't exactly feel good about it, the fact that she can say that, sit here in a chair and say that without breaking down is something.

Being able to acknowledge the trauma becomes the stepping stone to leaving it behind.

And though the landmines still explode sometimes, now she knows how to deal with them, how to let Clint help her make them safe to walk over. But then again, he'd always been good at that: loving her, even when all she felt was dark.

**THE END**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks. I hope you enjoyed the journey.
> 
> The sequel is next in this series entitled: "Paint me black and blue (I'll still stand by you)"
> 
> In which Phil still owns a diner. Senior year is upon them. And Clint learns that family isn't always about blood, but sometimes it still is.
> 
> PREVIEW:
> 
> "Who the hell is this?" Clint asks.
> 
> Steve shrugs, hauling the guy inside the door, body dragging like it's one of his punching bags he's manhandling. "Guy I knocked out."
> 
> Tony hops off the counter for a better view, balking at the red raised welts on the side of the guy's face. "With what? This was not your fist."
> 
> There's a lengthy groan before Steve says, "A garbage can lid."
> 
> Tony gapes at him. "Who do you think you are? Rambo?"
> 
> Steve tosses the guy down; he sprawls on all fours and Steve gestures pathetically. "He was breaking into the garage!"
> 
> The guy looks up, some smug smirk brewing behind the bruises Steve's left there.
> 
> "Oh, hell no," Clint says, stomach plummeting.
> 
> If the smirk wasn't enough, then the eyes are like a punch to the gut: hard, icy blue. The kind of stare that is deliberately unnerving and alluring all at once. There's a reason they used to be able to swindle old folks out of their souvenir money as kids.
> 
> "Barney?"
> 
> The guy gives a raspy chuckle. "Hey, little brother. Long time, no see . . . but I guess you're not so little anymore, huh?"


End file.
